Douglas: Lord of Heartache (31 page)

“A
tiara
?” Gwen nearly shouted. “You think a
tiara
compensation for subjecting my daughter to the likes of your father? His grown sons barely tolerate him, and if it weren’t for the duchess, he’d be an unbridled shame. What chance will a little girl have against a man like that? What chance, for that matter, will I?”

“When you walk around the backside of a skittish horse,” Westhaven said, his tone cooling, “the safest place to be is right up against its quarters.”

“What is
that
supposed to mean?” Because the back of the horse was where the most odoriferous… missteps might occur as well.

“If you fear the duke’s influence on Rose, the safest place to be is married to me.”

The idiot man spoke in perfectly civil tones.

“You are
advocating
for this match?”

“I am considering it in the best possible light,” Westhaven replied, “because it seems inevitable.”

“There is no best possible light,” Gwen wailed. “If I marry you, that wretched old man will expect me to produce your heir. I am
not
willing to do what that implies. I have already been ill-used by your brother, Westhaven, which was more indignity than one woman should have to suffer.”

“I would not use you ill,” Westhaven said quietly, giving her a hooded look that even in her panic took Gwen aback.

Westhaven regarded her as a man looks at a woman he
could
possibly
desire
. He was conducting a speculative, considering, thoroughly masculine, sensually inquisitive assessment that made it apparent, for all his reserved demeanor, Gayle Windham was a healthy, red-blooded male.

“Stop that,” she hissed, “or I shall be ill. You will not use me
at
all
, do you understand?”

“I shall not force you. You should trust me at least that far.”

“You are speaking in the future declarative tense, my lord.” She flopped back onto the settee, a tightness in her chest requiring that she get off her feet. “Are we then betrothed?”

“Not yet,” Westhaven said, resuming his seat beside her and giving her a puzzled look. “Soon, I’m afraid. His Grace agreed with me that while Victor is extant, it would be beyond ill-bred to propose to you. Victor is dying, but he is neither stupid nor insensate. His Grace accepted my suggestion, but extracted my promise we would be wed by special license within a week of Victor’s demise. His Grace is of the mind that this wedding—and Rose—will cheer my mother despite her bereavement, and I cannot gainsay the notion.”

His Grace would show the same consideration to Rose that he showed to his duchess, which was no comfort to Rose’s mama at all.

“One
week
?” Gwen whispered. “What is Rose to think of this? That it somehow isn’t beyond ill-bred?”

“I would pray Victor rallies and we somehow muddle past this folly without a trip to the altar, but in truth, Miss Hollister, nobody who cares for Victor would wish more suffering on him. For that reason, I will not apprise him of this development, and I ask you do not either.”

Gwen sat back, a sense of unreality overtaking her.
Oh, Douglas. Oh, my dear, dear love…

“Miss Hollister?” Westhaven looked at her expectantly, when the dratted man ought to have been moving blunt objects out of the range of her grasp.

“Victor forbid me to visit his sickroom, and included Rose in that decision.”

“I will have your word anyway.”

“You have it.”

He nodded, giving Gwen the sense that were she to marry this man, she’d become just another loose end for him to tidy up. The frown with which he regarded her reinforced that notion.

“If you insist upon it, madam, we can have a white marriage, though I reserve the right to try to change your mind on the matter.”

Drat the man for his arrogance, his stubbornness, and most of all for his paternity. “You shall not change my mind.”

“We are young, neither of us is ignorant of the pleasures of intimate congress, and providing the duke his heir would merit us both a significant measure of peace,” Westhaven reasoned. “I would also show you
every
consideration.”

Gwen gave an unladylike snort. “For heaven’s perishing sake, do you think to sway me with promises such as that?”

“What promises could I make that would enhance the appeal of such a marriage?” Westhaven asked, and damn the man, he seemed to be enjoying this negotiation.

Like duke, like heir, and even Victor had had a bit of this swaggering, heedless self-confidence.

“Promise me we could annul the rubbishing marriage the day your blighted sire went to his reward,” Gwen retorted. “That we would never dwell in the same residence as he, and that Rose would never be under his control.”

“I can live with those terms, assuming our marriage remains unconsummated.”

Gwen knew what he was thinking: at house parties, when visiting family, and so forth, they would be forced to share a bed, and in his calculating, considering way, he’d make the most of those opportunities.

“This is a devil’s bargain,” Gwen muttered. “I curse the day I met your father.”

“I sometimes curse the day my mother met him,” Westhaven rejoined. “As do my brothers. Though make no mistake, Gwen Hollister, I shall love my niece as if she were my daughter, and thank you for giving me something of my brother. I will become her custodian and be a father to her so His Grace cannot have himself appointed her guardian.”

Gwen heard him as if from a distance, but in his
I
shall
and
I
will
… he sounded exactly like his ducal sire.

“I cannot absorb this,” she said. “I quite frankly dread the prospect of marrying you, Westhaven.”

Though she could see no alternative. None.

“We are not wed yet,” Westhaven said, rising. “If you can find a means of thwarting His Grace, feel free to do so. I am bound by my word, by my duty to my family, and by a sense that marriage to you won’t be the disaster you seem to find the thought of marriage to me.”

“I do not want to be your duchess.”

“We’ve established that,” Westhaven said, staring down at her. “I’d like to offer one more point for your consideration before we’re off to admire Sir George.”

He kept hold of Gwen’s hand when she rose, which left her standing a bit too close to him. Then he dipped his head and softly brushed his lips against hers. Gwen was so startled she didn’t move. Didn’t protest, didn’t haul back and deliver the slap she’d contemplated earlier.

He was a good kisser, probably as a function of assiduous practice. In a procession of instants, his mouth moved gently on hers, coaxing and promising. He smelled good, like shaving soap and mint, and he tasted clean. When his tongue slipped along the seam of her lips, Gwen gasped in indignation and pulled back sharply.

“Shame on you,” she spat. “You do that again at your peril, Westhaven.”

“My apologies.” He bowed slightly. “I will note you took your sweet time locating that indignation, my lady. We could manage, you and I, if we had to.” He went to the door and politely held it for her, meeting her glare with a bland expression.

“I will be damned,” she said to him in low, venomous tones, “if I will
ever
allow another Windham male to inflict his intimate attentions upon me again. One incompetent, selfish lout in my life has been more than sufficient.”

“Look!” Rose squealed from the depths of a stall. “Sir George gave me his hoof. Now what do I do?”

“You put it
gently
back down on the ground and pat his shoulder to let him know you appreciate his manners,” Lord Valentine instructed. Gwen found them with Sir George, his lordship hunkered beside the beast to demonstrate the proper means of lifting the pony’s foot.

“Hello, Rose, Lord Valentine,” Gwen called, careful to make sure Sir George saw her as well. “Are you having a pleasant visit with Sir George?”

“Yes, Mama,” Rose said, leaving the stall. “Uncle Valentine says our George can live with us at Enfield and stay with us at Aunt’s house.”

Our
George?
Gwen would have cheerfully handed the little beast over to the knacker. “Did he now? I suppose you want to move your bed out here to the barn if he does?”

Rose stroked a thoughtful hand over the pony’s hairy shoulder. “It’s still too cold out. Maybe in summer?”

“Maybe in summer when you are a grown-up. Did you thank your uncle Valentine for bringing you out here?”

Lord Valentine had been watching mother and daughter interact, and Gwen had the sense he was typically a quiet man. The duke was downright noisy, while Westhaven was reserved, but lacking in this younger brother’s quality of
stillness
.

“Thank you, Uncle Valentine.” Rose snapped off a curtsy.

Her uncle smiled down at her with what looked like genuine affection. “My pleasure.”

“Mama, may I get one more carrot for Sir George? He was a
perfect
saint.”

“I’ll take her,” Westhaven offered. “Come, Miss Rose, and we’ll nip a treat off Cook before she knows we’re in the kitchen.” Rose smiled hugely at her uncle’s teasing and disappeared, her hand trustingly wrapped in Westhaven’s.

“He leaves us alone,” Gwen said when Rose and Westhaven had made their escape. “Is there some conversation you would have with me in private, Lord Valentine? Am I to marry you if ill fortune befalls two of your brothers at once? You have another brother, too, I’m told, though the circumstances of his birth likely preserve him from begging for my hand.”

Lord Valentine closed the stall door and stood regarding the fat, happy pony within. “You are not what I expected. I thought to find someone… well, someone quite different.”

An honest, forthright Windham—how novel. “You expected the loose creature your father believes me to be?”

His lips quirked. “Do you truly think I would rely on any characterization that originated with my father?”

“I don’t know. What were you expecting?”

“Somebody ruined,” he said, perusing her. “A defeated woman.”

What
an
odd
conversation.
“I suppose my reputation is ruined, but because I never joined the battle, I can’t consider myself defeated.”

“Thank the gods. You will be good for us, and Mother will love you. Rose is a treasure.”

A treasure Gwen was going to have to learn to share, much as Douglas had predicted weeks ago.

“And in what capacity will I be good for the estimable Windham family?” Because they would certainly not be good for her.

George pawed at his straw, apparently of the mind that humans in his vicinity ought to be paying attention to him rather than petty affairs like death, marriage, and a doomed love.

“His Grace has worn us all down, Westhaven probably most of all.” Lord Valentine reached forward and scratched the chubby pony getting down to business with a pile of fragrant hay. “I hide in the country as much as I can, and Devlin keeps mostly to himself, but Westhaven must do the pretty about Town as the heir. Mother mitigates damage in His Grace’s wake, but since Bart’s death, the strain has been telling on her. My sisters know how to placate His Grace, but when the duke has seen his sons married, my sisters will feel the dubious blessing of their papa’s matrimonial ambitions.”

“You make him sound harmlessly devoted, or perhaps even to be pitied.”

Dark brows twitched down, as if this were some sort of insight. “Perhaps he is to be pitied, Miss Hollister, but rather like King George until recently, he holds a lot of power even in a pitiable state. You will be a bracing wind, one that gives the rest of us some new perspective.”

Horse-fashion, the pony lifted its tail and casually passed gas, a fine response to Lord Valentine’s mention of a bracing wind.

“I have no intention of joining the Windham family in any meaningful way.”
Brave
words, of course, nothing more.

His lordship left off scratching the flatulent pony and straightened. He was tall, and hours on the piano bench apparently filled out a man’s chest and shoulders considerably. “The entire household heard Westhaven railing at His Grace for this latest crack-brained scheme, but the entire household also knows Westhaven had little choice but to concede if we’re not to end up in difficult circumstances.”

“Moreland’s indifference to financial matters is not my fault.”

“Nor is it Westhaven’s.” Lord Valentine ran a hand through thick, dark hair. “I have antagonized you by mentioning my father. I do apologize.”

“So why did you come here today?” Gwen asked, finding despite herself that she liked Lord Valentine—as much as she could like any Windham.

“I wanted to meet you and to let you know I do not approve of this scheme His Grace has hatched. Westhaven doesn’t like it much either, but he has little choice.”

“And Her Grace? What does your mother think?”

Valentine continued to study the pony shut up in its stall. “Sometimes, I believe my mother thinks as little as possible, but I know that is both unfair and untrue. She will be told you and Westhaven found you would suit, and a marriage between you will benefit Rose. In fact, Westhaven will be a good father to our brother’s child, and were he to learn of it, Victor would likely approve too.”

Gwen closed her eyes and forced herself to take a slow, deep breath. In her mind’s eye, she saw Douglas climbing a tree to rescue a child who was small, helpless, and in very great peril. She saw Douglas in the dead of night, hauling bucket after bucket of cool water up to a nursery turned into a sickroom. She saw Douglas insisting she be treated with utmost civility as he escorted her into the ducal lion’s den.

For Douglas’s sake, she asked another question. “How can Westhaven contemplate marriage to a stranger at the duke’s request—a stranger with whom his brother has been intimate, lest we forget?”

“Westhaven doesn’t lack a sense of humor, though he certainly doesn’t have the same sense of fun my other three brothers were born with. He’ll marry you because he must marry someone. You are lovely in a way he can appreciate, and marriage to you will allow him to finally curb the duke’s financial missteps. Why shouldn’t he marry you?”

“Because,” Gwen said through clenched teeth, “I do not wish to marry him.”

Valentine studied her for a long, silent moment. “You poor woman,” he said quietly. “You love another.”

Gwen stiffened as if slapped. By reputation, Windhams were neither cowardly nor stupid.

“For pity’s sake,” he said in the same low voice, “do not let the duke catch even a hint of it, or you will regret it endlessly. Westhaven understands something about life and the workings of the heart, but the duke will torture you without mercy should he learn of it.”

“Your warning is appreciated,” Gwen said with bitter honesty, “though absolutely, entirely, completely unnecessary.”

***

Douglas closed his mother’s bedroom door and found his way to the Amery Hall estate office by the light of a single, short tallow candle. Fatigue, worry, and sorrow hovered near, like the flickering shadows cast by the flame before him.

Correspondence sat in tidy stacks on the battered desk, all dutifully sorted, read, and replied to. Douglas lit a few more candles, sat down, and took out pen, paper, sand, and ink.

My dearest lady,

Mother yet lingers, and in the kindnesses I can do for her, I find a measure of peace and a measure of torment. Each hour I hold her hand, each sonnet I read to her, each sip of water I can provide her, makes me a more dutiful son, and more worried for you and Rose.

For too many years, long before Rose’s birth, you have lived as if alone, facing every challenge with only the wit and resources you yourself commanded. I know that strength, Guinevere, and I know the fears and worries that can drive it.

Until I can return to your side, please do not receive a Windham male in private, despite such a course being your natural inclination. Do not, I beg you, allow His Grace to corner you and bludgeon you with his arguments and machinations. I commend the man’s loyalty to family, but you already have family.

And you have at least one friend. I can content myself with that role in your life if and only if I know you are content as well, free from coercion and worry, for yourself and for your daughter.

Douglas stared down at the neat script flowing over the page. More thoughts crowded his mind, thoughts about missing Guinevere, loving her, fearing for her happiness.

Thoughts about resigning himself to the choices Guinevere might make, to becoming solely her friend, if her marriage turned out to be valid or if her maternal heart required that she accept a place in the Windham family.

Would the thoughts Douglas had penned comfort her or make her decisions harder?

A swift, soft tapping on the door interrupted Douglas’s brooding. “My lord, you’re wanted above stairs.”

The summons came at least twice a night, when Lady Amery’s breathing became particularly labored, or she became restive and the nurse could not fathom her needs.

“Coming,” Douglas replied.

He balled up the letter, tossed it onto the meager fire smoldering in the hearth, and returned to his mother’s side.

***

“Westhaven will propose to
Gwen
?
”
the Marquess of Heathgate all but roared, causing his wife to wince in unison with his brother. There were no children in the vicinity, however, and as far as Heathgate was concerned, some sentiments deserved a bit of volume.

“The duke’s household is all abuzz with it,” Fairly replied in maddeningly calm tones, “but Westhaven was able to convince the duke not to insist on a wedding until after Victor has passed to his reward.”

The five of them, Fairly, Gareth and Felicity, Andrew and Astrid were gathered in Lady Heathgate’s family parlor while Rose and her great aunt strolled in the park and Gwen napped—or fretted in solitude. While Felicity, Andrew, and Astrid were side by side on the sofa, Gareth paced, and Fairly looked on from a window seat that had to be a bit chilly.

Astrid spoke first, and with conviction. “You will not want Gwen to know you’ve been spying, David. We need to send for Douglas. If anyone can talk sense into Gwen, it’s Douglas.”

Douglas, who was at his mother’s deathbed, while another sort of demise was in progress here in London.

“And what if he can’t talk sense into her?” Gareth asked, pausing to pour a bit too much fresh coal on the fire. “Then you’d subject him to seeing Gwen led to the altar?”

“If somebody doesn’t do something,” Astrid retorted, “you, Heathgate, will be the one giving her away. Should Gwen accept this ridiculous match, you’ll have to stall the duke with the negotiations.”

Excellent tactic. As Gareth tidied up the mess he’d made at the hearth, he was equal parts relieved at Astrid’s suggestion and chagrined not to have thought of it himself.

“Capital notion,” Andrew remarked. “I also agree with Astrid that we should be sending for Douglas.”

Heathgate’s wife said with a glance she was in agreement with the others, though she’d never contradict her husband publicly—well, almost never. Not often, in any case.

“He can’t very well leave his mother’s side,” Gareth pointed out. “If Lady Amery yet lingers, his hands will be tied.”

“Heathgate.” Felicity spoke quietly. “Douglas is our family, too. He will fret himself silly if he hears no word of the situation here. He’s been gone almost a week, but my guess is not one of you has written to him. If we can’t keep Gwen safe from Moreland’s schemes in Douglas’s absence, then we owe it to him to at least make sure he has notice of the nuptials.”

Silly and the present Viscount Amery were not acquainted, nor likely to become so.

“I wrote midweek,” Fairly said, “but only to say Valentine Windham had joined the family in Town, and Sir George now resides with Rose here. I can put this development in a letter as well, but I’d rather tell Douglas we’re damned sure not going to facilitate this farce.”

“We may not have a choice,” Felicity said, sparing Gareth the trouble. “If Gwen decides marrying Westhaven is best for Rose, then she will not appreciate our opposition. She is Rose’s mother, and we must respect her decision in this.”

Gareth scowled, though his wife’s reasoning was damnably sound. What she did not say was that this entire mess might have been avoided if Gwen’s nearest male relation, one Gareth, Marquess of Heathgate, had moved promptly to assume guardianship of Rose upon learning of the child’s existence.

But that cowardly bastard had not wanted to offend the girl’s mother. He set the hearth broom back in its stand forcefully enough to nearly upend the lot.

“I will
appear
to support Gwen’s decision while I stall the settlement negotiations,” Gareth said. “Fairly will alert Douglas to the goings-on, and you ladies ensure Gwen has the benefit of your wisdom on this matter. How much longer is Victor expected to last?”

“That poor wretch is on borrowed time,” Fairly said. “He could leave us at any moment, and would probably rather go sooner than later.” As a physician, Fairly rendered an educated opinion, not a guess based on servants’ gossip.

Gareth scrubbed a hand over his face, when what he wanted to do was raid the decanters on the sideboard, or better yet, smash them one by one. “I suppose it’s the best we can do. Douglas was convinced the duke threatened Gwen somehow, but she’s yet to intimate what the nature of the duke’s coercion might be. We need more leverage over the old weasel, and the sooner the better.”